


careless with my heart again

by aimerai



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Feelings, Heart-Sharing AU, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimerai/pseuds/aimerai
Summary: Mat looks at Chabby, actually looks at him, and wants to kiss him. This is not a new thought, nor is it particularly damning. Mat wants to make him fall apart, and that’s fine, too. But wanting to smooth out the faint wrinkle of his brow and uncoil the tension from his shoulders is a line he can’t cross. Wanting Chabby to go back to the person he was when he was asleep, carefree, is not something he is allowed. Staying the night was a detour; staying in bed was a mistake, and yet, Mat can’t bring himself to regret it. Some things are an inevitability; this may not be one of them, but Mat thinks he’d have chosen to land here anyway. Even if it’s going to hurt, even as he’s trying to pull himself out of one of the biggest hurts he’s ever had.





	careless with my heart again

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [eafay70](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eafay70/pseuds/eafay70) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
> 
> 
> All-Star weekend shenanigans of the author's choosing. :)
> 
> title from maroon 5's 'not falling apart' and INCREDIBLY on point.  
> in advance, i am so sorry

Thomas Chabot is weirdly perceptive at the best of times. He is also weirdly perceptive at the worst of times, and Mat would like to call this the worst of times, but there’s being dramatic and then there’s this, and whatever Mat is, he’s self-aware enough to know that this isn’t even remotely the worst of times. He’s just being a little dramatic and hurt, but he’s entitled to his own emotions, whatever. He’s not even sure how the fuck Chabby found him, but Chabby is good at people and knowing about them, so he doesn’t know why he’s pretending he’s surprised. He’s pretty sure Chabby was with his parents, but he seems to have abandoned them for Mat now that it’s past dinner and social niceties time.

Chabby is giving him one of those looks he has, worse than a disappointed look from Mat's mom. Mat hates him deeply, because now he'll have to talk about it, even if it’s talking about it by not talking about it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His teeth hurt from clenching his jaw shut, but he has a reputation to maintain. 

Chabby snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. You wanna hang on to my heart for a bit, while you’re so busy not talking about it?”

Mat wants to do that, too, but he doesn’t want to have to say it, and Chabby rolls his eyes again. He’s apparently been keeping his heart in his pocket, because he hands it over to Mat with no fanfare, as always. 

Mat raises an eyebrow at him. “You just kept it on you through media?” 

Chabby shakes his head. “Figured I was gonna run into you.”

So this _was_ premeditated. Mat wonders if he looks as betrayed as he feels, but Chabby has a steady heart. It’s hard to be angry in the face of the mild contentment he can just barely feel radiating off of it. Chabby’ heart is completely different from Dante’s, but Dante’s is a heart that Mat grew up with. Chabby gave Mat his heart to cement their friendship just because. Chabby is hard to read; his heart is even harder to read, and Mat never gets much more than the occasional tingle of feeling from it, but it’s nice to hold on to, anyway. It’s constant because Chabby himself is unflappable a solid 90% of the time. And in the life that they’ve chosen, a little steady thing like that makes a world of difference. Mat tucks the heart in his sweatshirt pocket carefully, lets his fingers linger over it a moment or two longer than they strictly need to.

Chabby nods once, satisfied. “You’ve unclenched a little, thank fuck.”

Mat glares at him, but Chabby lets it roll off his back like it's nothing. Mat forgot how fucking annoying Chabby could be sometimes, but Mat knows that people find him annoying as fuck, too. It’s probably why they worked as well as they did, for those days when they were the most _boys_. They’re still _boys_ ; they’re just not the kind of _boys_ who sleep together anymore. “What do you want?”

“Let’s get a drink,” Chabby says, which is not an answer.

Mat tries to hold a stare-off and loses immediately because Chabby doesn’t even bite. “Are you talking, like, actual alcohol?”

“If you drink anything stronger than beer, I’m going to assume you’ve been bodysnatched,” Chabby replies. “None of this even matters, but you’re going to take it too seriously.”

It's true, but that doesn't mean he has to say it out loud. Like he knows what Mat’s thinking, Chabby wraps an arm around Mat’s shoulders, halfway to an actual hug. Mat would worm his way out, but there’s no point, and honestly, it's nice to have someone else looking after him, telling him what to do.

“Yeah, fine,” Mat says, and Chabby smiles at him, honestly pleased. “You didn’t have to practically kidnap me to do it, though.”

“I did, a little bit. You’re prickly as fuck.” 

Mat almost wants to apologize, but it would ring hollow. He doesn’t really even want to apologise; he just almost feels bad about this whole song and dance they have to go through every time. “Whatever. Where are you kidnapping me to?”

Chabby grins. “I’ve gotten a couple of recommendations.”

“How would you—Karlsson.”

The resulting shrug is good as a yes. “You have your people, I have mine.”

Dick. Just because of one time in Montreal, too. “Lead on.”

* * *

Mat isn’t even drunk; he’s on the far side of tipsy and self-pitying enough to not hide from the fact that he fucking wants to talk about it. Chabby has been buying their drinks, even though Mat is finally legal here and could buy his own poison. It’s nice to sit and shoot the shit, carefully avoiding talking about anything that might ring too honest, because they both know that even the walls have ears. Well, Chabby knows, for sure. He’s told Mat as much, before, that he really has to watch what he says. Too much media scrutiny, especially with everything imploding in Ottawa all the time. Mat does not envy him one fucking bit, thank you, even if his media jumps at every chance to ask about John Tavares. What Mat knows is that people will say what they want to, so he can at least give them a good show. Apparently that translates to cocky, but it’s chill. Better cocky than a media disaster. Although Chabby’s not even that. He’s seen some of Chabby’s media, and all it does is make him sad.

He’s been drinking whatever Chabby hands him, but it’s not what he’s used to. It goes down smooth enough that before he knows it, he’s wondering what it would be like to pour himself into Chabby’s lap. He probably shouldn’t be in public anymore. It doesn’t mean anything, except that Chabby is comforting and Mat wants to be comforted, but there’s only so much you can get away with in public.

“Can we go?” he blurts out, in the middle of a comfortable silence. It’s also a confusing silence, because Chabby’s not known for being quiet. They’re both talkers; Mat knows it drives anyone third-wheeling them insane. 

Chabby is a little pink and looks pretty composed if you ignore his three loosened buttons. Mat has a weird swooping feeling in his stomach from the heart in his sweatshirt. Honestly, it might only be augmented by the heart in his sweatshirt, but their knees are bumping under the table and Chabby has been leaning in to hear him, eyes bright and laughter ready. Mat always forgets until he sees Chabby again, that Chabby is larger than fucking life. He gives Mat tunnel vision. 

Chabby blinks at him, and there’s a little wrinkle between his brows. He looks at Mat like he sees all of Mat, all together. Their moment stretches on long, in this quiet enough bar, Chabby searching for something from Mat that he probably won’t find. Mat knows what it is to be unreadable. How to show his bones without exposing his heart. 

Mat sighs, because Chabby still doesn’t get it. “You want me to talk about it. I can’t do that here.”

“I don’t, if you don’t want to talk about it,” Chabby says, his English remarkably clipped and crisp for someone who absolutely should not be driving any time soon or any time later. “I think you need to talk about it, and everyone else either doesn’t know, or won’t ask, or won’t keep asking after the first time, even though it’s common knowledge that you always deflect at least the first three times. I know I’m not your first choice, but if there’s literally anyone else who would do it and do it right, I’d let them.”

Chabby’s always been the responsible one. He can keep things light just as well as anyone, but he’s good at being solid. Dependable. It’s the d-man in him. 

“This isn’t about—” Mat starts, and can’t finish. He doesn’t want this to be a favor. His back being scratched, because he scratched Chabby’s. They don’t talk often, anymore, but when they do, it’s usually about heavy things, the kind that require advice. They both have good networks, so they’re always up for hooking others up, either metaphorically or literally, and Mat has called in that part of their relationship a lot, this season.

“This isn’t about that at all. We’re boys, Barzy.”

Mat’s out of excuses and deflections and just drunk enough that it feels like it’s time to talk about it. He could tell Chabby no, and Chabby would listen, because he’s not an asshole like that. He’s just worried and being nice in the only way he knows how: minor dickishness. “Can we walk back?”

“Sure, Mat,” Chabby says. “Whatever you want.”

Mat needs fresh air. If he’s going to unload on Chabby, he wants to be a little less adrift. They’re not that far from the hotel, he’s pretty sure. He knows this, too, was premeditated. Chabby can play dumb hockey bro with the rest of them, but he’s clever when it counts, pulling out his phone so they can walk back via GPS. Mat could chirp him, but it’s a nice night and Chabby’s nicer. Mat’s learned not to antagonize the people doing him favours, unless he wants to wake up to ice water in his face.

* * *

Chabby takes them to his hotel room, but Mat can barely tell the differences between theirs. They’ve seen so many hotel rooms that they fade into each other. He takes off his shoes at the door, because he knows Chabby will slit his throat if Mat gets on the bed without taking off his shoes and that’s all he wants. The bed looks so fucking good, and it’s not even that late by California standards, but they live in the east. Mat shrugs out of his jacket, whipping it at the chair in the corner, and takes the heart out of his sweatshirt more carefully, finally settling for putting it on the desk. He thinks it needs to breathe a little, after being cooped up in his sweatshirt pocket, and once he’s sure it’s fine and not too close to the edge of the table, he launches himself at the bed, sprawling out onto it and sighing a little.

“Comfortable?” Chabby drawls, eyebrow ticked up. He looks like he’s about to laugh, which is always a good look on him. 

Mat plays it up a little, sprawls out even more, considers worming under the comforter to stress his point even more, but he still has his sweatshirt on and that’s going to be too fucking warm. “You know it.”

Seconds later, there’s a bottle of water flying at his head that Mat catches more out of instinct than anything else, followed by another of Gatorade. It’s one of the blue ones, which is pretty fucking baller, because blue Gatorade is the best, just like blue M&Ms are the best. Not that Mat eats blue M&Ms on a regular basis or anything. 

“Hydrate,” Chabby says. His water bottle is already half-drained, and Mat watches him drain the rest of it. Focusing on Chabby swallowing is so much easier than thinking about the real reason he’s here. “You have to compete in Fastest Skater, tomorrow.”

Mat makes a face. “It’s not even real hockey.”

“You still want to win,” Chabby says, putting down the empty water bottle on the desk rather than in the trash, and picking up his heart carefully. 

He’s right, though. Mat does still want to win. Mat always wants to win everything. The games, the medals, and when he’s not too busy pretending he doesn’t want it, the boy. 

Mat doesn’t say anything, so Chabby walks over and gives Mat his heart again. “You’re going to need this, probably.”

Mat wants it. He does. He’s just also remembering that the last heart he held is a heart that doesn’t belong to him anymore. Honestly, it never did, because hearts don’t really belong to people like that, but it matters to Mat. Chabby crawls into the bed beside him, slumped against the headboard, and Mat just slides down more, till he can rest the side of his head against Chabby’s hip. 

“You okay?” Chabby asks. 

Mat sticks out his tongue, blue now. Avoidance is the name of his game. “I finished it.”

“You’re a champ,” Chabby says, drier than the desert. 

Mat cradles Chabby’s heart closer with one hand, and with the free one, reaches up to scrub his fingers through Chabby’s hair. Chabby bats at his hand lazily, more for the sake of doing it than anything. It’s too quiet; Chabby’s going to wait him out, still being more quiet than Mat has ever known him to be.

“It’s not ideal,” Mat says, finally. Understatement of the century, Barzal. 

The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels, tears pricking at his eyes that he doesn’t want. He turns around, careful with Chabby’s heart, keeping his back to Chabby and the heart up close, right by his chest. He can feel worry and stress, and that makes him feel worse. 

“You’re really worried about me, huh?” Mat whispers, mostly into the pillow, and that’s going to be the thing that makes him cry, the sharp stabs of worry pricking his fingers. 

“Yeah,” Chabby says, carefully, going French in a way that he doesn’t usually. Unpeeling his own facade. “You could say that. You’re a good fucking friend, even when you’re bad at it.”

Mat really is going to cry. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Not quite,” Chabby says, an odd note in his voice. “But I am worried.”

It’s complicated. Mat does not want anyone to think he’s unhappy about Dante and Tyson and whatever gross thing they’re doing, and he can at least tell people that he’s responsible for that working itself out. Dante’s heart being with Tyson wasn’t something he would have predicted until it happened, and Dante’s always been one of the people Mat thought was his. It spills out of him like bile, all of the terrible feelings he’s been hiding because Dante is his best friend and deserves love, and Mat is not that kind of monster. But neither is Mat the right kind of love, and he bites down on the words but they’re already free. 

And there it is, out in the open, ugly and pathetic and _true._ Mat is a little bit in love with Dante, but in his defence, he dares anyone not to be. It’s Dante, who’s almost more familiar to Mat than breathing, and Dante’s heart, and Mat came back from Summerland and sulked for a few hours. A few days. Not more than that, because he had expected it, and sure, it fucking hurt, but he’s had time to get used to it. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. Mat’s always known Dante loves him, and he’s always known that he doesn’t love Dante the way Dante loves him. It’s just the way things are. He hadn’t gone home for Christmas partially because he didn’t think he could bear to see them being all cute.

He might have said some of that out loud, because Chabby’ eyes are soft and he’s pulling Mat closer. Mat protests, of course. He doesn’t like making things easy.

“Shut up,” Chabby says fiercely, hugging Mat. “We’ve all been there. You’re allowed to be sad.”

Mat still tries to twist out of it, but Chabby’s good at holding on. “Chabby.”

“Shut up, you get to be sad,” Chabby repeats. “You did a good thing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it. It hurts.”

“Sometimes the good things do. Remember silver?”

Chabby is really good at hitting the parts of Mat that are tender. Some part of him still thinks gold, somewhere. Still remembers silver with bitter regret. 

“Brothers,” Mat says, voice raspy.

“Yeah. I had a not-great breakup, earlier,” Chabby says, his voice almost emotionless, but Mat felt that tiny stab of pain from the heart in his hands. “Silver helped.”

Mat’s world is tilting on his axis. “You were dating?”

Chabby’s face does something tragic, like Mat hurt him just by asking the question, and Mat can’t fucking stand it. “I’m gonna fucking wreck them; you’re such a fucking catch.”

“Regular fourth-line grinder, aren’t you?” Chabby says, dryly, but Mat can tell he’s pleased, can feel it warming the tips of his fingers like a campfire on a slightly too brisk summer’s night. 

Chabby probably doesn’t realise it, but he’s as good as told Mat that he was dating someone running in their circles. Someone skating in their circles, even. He’ll ask Tito about it when he’s back.

“Well, if you’re gonna mope,” Mat drawls, instead. 

Chabby shakes his head. “I’m mostly over it. Told you it’s like silver.”

They have different definitions of silver, and Mat feels worn out. The heart in his hands isn’t the one he wanted it to be, but he’s pretty sure he fucking needs this, needs Chabby, steady and strong and so good at reducing everything down to what matters. He thinks he might be okay, at the end of it. Maybe it’ll be like Chabby’s silver, but right now, it’s Mat’s silver, and Mat’s silver hurt. It hurt so fucking much.

“It’s fucked up, to still kind of hope it can work out, right?” Mat asks finally. He can’t quite look at Chabby.

“You’re not very good at heartbreak, are you?”

“You’re not very good at pulling punches.”

Chabby runs a hand through Mat’s hair like an apology. “Sorry. It hurts more when you think you can make it work, Mat. I’m not saying that they will last, but maybe they will. No point in pinning your hopes on something that might never happen.”

The last part of that is bitter. Mat’s pretty sure Chabby’s projecting a little bit, or trying to convince himself of what he’s saying. There’s a twisting in Mat’s gut and a stab of sorrow at his fingers. He doesn’t want to make Chabby cry; he doesn’t even know what to do if he makes Chabby cry. And whatever, sure, some fucking asshole broke up with Chabby and made him shut up, which sucks so much that Mat can’t even articulate it, but in the here and now, it’ll be Mat making him cry and that’s not allowed. 

“I think you needed this almost as much as I did.”

Chabby lifts one shoulder slightly, as close to a yes as Mat’s going to get.

“I love you,” Mat says, and it almost doesn’t hurt, to pry out that much feeling and give it to someone else. Maybe not in the same way as other things, but Mat does love Chabby. He’s a good guy.

Chabby smiles down at him, tiny and real and touched, and that makes it worth it. “Love you too.” 

* * *

Mat wakes up first, but nothing happened. They just turned out the lights and talked until they fell asleep, sharing secrets. Chabby knows Mat has to be in a certain mood to be smothered, but they’re not strangers; no awkward bedsharing where they lie on separate sides, stiff as boards. There’s no prospect of a walk of shame for Mat, and his head isn’t pounding, although he does still feel that post-drinking fuzziness. Chabby is still asleep, and he looks lighter here than he ever does when he’s awake. Younger, too. There’s a reason Mat doesn’t usually stay the night, and it’s more than morning awkwardness. Staying the night means knowing a person, and now Mat knows just how much Chabby carries when he's awake. He knows the names of the things Chabby carries too, silver and heartbreak and more responsibility than he needs. He’s going to throw out his back if he doesn’t learn to chill.

He’s trying to crawl out of bed without disturbing Chabby, but does something just enough that Chabby startles awake, dead asleep one minute, and blinking awake in the next. 

“You can go back to bed,” Mat says, quickly. 

Chabby blinks at Mat, uncomprehending, and then scowls. “We’re getting breakfast.”

Mat doesn’t remember Chabby being much of a morning person. Half the time, if Mat woke him up and they didn’t have to be anywhere, Chabby would bitch at him until he agreed to cuddle, not that Mat was ever opposed to cuddling. He just liked to make Chabby work for it. 

“You sure you don't want to catch another hour of sleep?” Mat asks. 

“Will you stop trying to run away?” Chabby counters snippily. 

Okay, he deserved that. “I wasn't trying to run away.” 

“Come back to bed,” Chabby says. He hasn’t lost that morning grumpiness at all, and his hair is a mess, but Mat is so fond of him anyway.

Mat doesn’t really say no to things when it comes to Chabby. He just likes when Chabby asks, confirms that he really wants things from Mat. Chabby is only about half awake and glaring at Mat a little now.

“Will you just come back?” Chabby asks, softly. “Don’t be difficult about this. I know you don’t have to go anywhere.”

Mat doesn’t say anything incriminating, but he lets Chabby hold the sheets for him, and drape blankets over him, and fussily mess with them until he’s satisfied. Their knees are touching, but they’re not that close, and it’s just comfortable, Nice. Chabby’s always a good person to sleep with, in both senses of the word. His face is already relaxing again, and it hits Mat all over again, how much less stressed Chabby looks right now when he’s sleeping, or just about to fall off that cliff. 

“Stop thinking,” Chabby mutters, and flicks Mat in the forehead. It actually hurts. 

Mat makes a face. “That hurt.”

“Then stop overthinking,” Chabby grouches. “I’ll cuddle you until you do.”

That’s not even an effective threat; Mat likes cuddling with Chabby. “You could just say you want to be cuddled.”

Chabby rolls his eyes, and adjusts until he’s a lot closer. “Do you?”

It doesn’t sound awful. Mat turns over, and seconds later, Chabby’s arm is around his waist and there’s a wall of warmth at his back. Predictable. “Happy now?”

“I’d be a lot happier if I could sleep until my alarm goes off,” Chabby says, his breath stirring the hairs at the back of Mat’s neck. 

“Fine, I guess.” He’s not even sure Chabby processes that, already more asleep than awake. Chabby really, really isn’t a morning person.

Mat doesn’t actually fall back asleep, but Chabby does, breathing evenly, soothing background noise. Mat tries to doze, but now that he’s full sober and not tired out from having a full day, he can overthink everything from yesterday. Looking back on it, he’s embarrassed as hell about having a full breakdown on Chabby, but Chabby’s not going to say anything about it. It still doesn’t do anything for the pit of shame in his stomach, but at least some of that shame should really be righteous anger, because apparently Chabby and Mat are now the kind of bros where Chabby wasn’t comfortable looking for comfort post-breakup or even admitting that he was dating. It’s so wrong; Mat and Chabby’s entire thing is that they’re _boys_. He desperately wants to text Tito, who would definitely know, but if he moves out of the bed, he’s going to wake Chabby up again. He’d rather not, all things considered, especially when it’s been made clear that Chabby is happy enough to have Mat in his bed. 

Mat is timing his breaths to Chabby’s without realizing it, when Chabby’s alarm blares, loud and annoying and mostly just really fucking loud. Chabby’s arm around his waist disappears, and so does the wall of heat, and Mat mourns the loss of it, but the blaring stops a few seconds and some vague swearing later. 

“Five more minutes, then breakfast,” Chabby mumbles, in French. 

Mat snickers. “You’re going to fall asleep for good, Chabby.”

“Fine, tyrant,” Chabby says, in English this time, as the bed shifts. “Let’s get breakfast.”

“You’re kidnapping me for breakfast and I’m the tyrant?” Mat asks, turning over to Chabs, sitting up in bed but still kinda slumped. 

Chabby yawns and runs a hand through his hair. “You could say no. You can always say no, but you never do, so it’s not a real kidnapping.”

Mat doesn’t particularly like being seen through either, but Chabby doesn’t give a shit, stumbling towards his luggage. “Do you want me to lend you stuff or do you want to stop by your room?”

“None of your stuff is going to look good on me.”

“You’re such a drama queen, fine,” Chabby says. “But if I think you’re taking too long, I reserve the right to cut off your water.”

“Just say you want to see me dripping wet,” Mat shoots back automatically.

Chabby is definitely pinker than he should be, and Mat kind of wants to take it back. Chabby’s definitely fucked up about this whole breakup that he totally blindsided Mat with, and Mat is really bad at not accidentally bringing it up, or toning down his regular level of horny, but sue him, Chabby’s always a good memory even when everything else around them sucks ass.

Chabby doesn’t seem put off or traumatized or anything, takes it in stride with a slow blink. “I’ve seen it all before.”

“You’re going to give me a complex,” Mat pouts, more for show than anything. 

“You can take it,” Chabby replies dryly. “Hurry up. I’ll trade you extra keys?”

That could lead to something awful if it were any other weekend, but whatever. Chabby’s keycard is red and he narrows his eyes before he gives it to Mat. “Don’t forget my heart.”

“Alright,” Mat says, leaning over the bed to scoop it up. “Meet you in the lobby in fifteen?”

It ends up taking him closer to twenty, but Chabby’s sitting on one of the couches in the lobby on his phone, instead of making good on his threat, until he sees Mat, at which point he closes the distance himself. “Took you long enough.”

“I had to find something I could put your heart in,” Mat tells him. “And it’s not like you came looking, anyway. Where did Karlsson say was good?”

Chabby rolls his eyes. “It’s not a Karlsson suggestion, but there’s a pancake place.”

“Chabby,” Mat protests. They have a game to play. 

Chabby rolls his eyes, again. He does that too often in Mat’s presence. He wraps an arm around Mat’s shoulders and shakes him a little. “Mat, it’s breakfast. Every place is going to do twenty variations on eggs. We’re both going on byes after this.”

He has a point. “I’m ordering the healthiest thing on their menu,” Mat scowls, because he doesn’t give in on principle. 

“That’s okay,” Chabby says, entirely too calmly, squeezing Mat just a little more before letting go and heading towards the doors. “I’ll order chocolate chip pancakes for you.”

“Chabby,” Mat says, but he’s not actually protesting this time. He’s pretty sure he’s been cuddled into just going along with whatever the fuck Chabby wants.

Chabby gives him another one of those looks that Mat doesn’t understand. “I would think you could call me by my name, Mat.”

He’s such an asshole. Mat’s into it, though, and without a second thought, practically purrs. “Whatever you’d like, Thomas.”

Chabby’s steps stutter just a bit. “You’re such a disaster,” he says, but he’s laughing. “Mat, c’mon, we’re friends. If we have a heart-to-heart, you should at least be able to call me by name.”

Mat narrows his eyes. That’s a dare, and he doesn’t back down from dares. “I’ll work on it.”

“You fucking better,” Chabby laughs. Mat envies his ability to let things roll off of his back. 

“How far are we going?” Mat asks, in a blatant subject change that Chabby doesn’t call him out for. 

Chabby shrugs. “It’s close to the arena.”

So, not far. It’s a quiet walk, Chabby frowning at his phone and the street signs, Mat following him, hands in his pocket, keeping Chabby’s heart from bouncing around too much. It’s not that soft, but he still feels better about keeping it comfortable. 

When they finally do get there, Mat narrowly avoids colliding with Chabby, not paying nearly enough attention. 

“How do you feel about sitting outside?” Chabby asks. 

“I feel good about it?” Mat tries, which appears to be the right answer, because Chabby gives their waitress a really bright smile before requesting one of the outside tables.

She smiles back at him, charmed the way so many people are, and gets them a corner table, quiet and out of the way. She’s efficient, too, back with their coffees minutes after they order them, but leaving them to their menus, which Chabby is scrutinizing with entirely too much interest for someone who apparently picked the place on his own. 

Mat looks at Chabby, actually looks at him, and wants to kiss him. This is not a new thought, nor is it particularly damning. Mat wants to make him fall apart, and that’s fine, too. But wanting to smooth out the faint wrinkle of his brow and uncoil the tension from his shoulders is a line he can’t cross. Wanting Chabby to go back to the person he was when he was asleep, carefree, is not something he is allowed. Staying the night was a detour; staying in bed was a mistake, and yet, Mat can’t bring himself to regret it. Some things are an inevitability; this may not be one of them, but Mat thinks he’d have chosen to land here anyway. Even if it’s going to hurt, even as he’s trying to pull himself out of one of the biggest hurts he’s ever had.

Chabby looks at him, eyes off of his menu. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Mat lies, because this is a dangerous road he’s going down. 

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Chabby says. 

“Then don’t,” Mat says, but he nudges Chabby’s knee under the table. “Buy me pancakes, Chabby.”

“Maybe if you call me by name,” Chabby says, but when the waitress comes by, he orders chocolate chip pancakes anyway.

* * *

“Thomas,” Mat says, the name lingering in his mouth, and eyes Chabby’s lap. He can fit there, and he knows it, but they’re in public. Mat fucking hates the public eye, thanks.

Chabby blinks at him, and there’s a little wry twist to his mouth that wasn’t there before. “You really pick your moments.”

He’s not as sober as he sounds; Mat can see his undershirt peeking out from his unbuttoned collar, and he’d bet whatever he wins this weekend that Chabby’s tie is in his pants pocket. “What?” he asks, because he thinks Chabby is not trying to be cryptic, but he is. 

Chabby shakes his head, slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Do you want something?”

“I can’t say hello to my favourite d-man?” Mat asks, and once it’s out of his mouth, he wants to swallow his tongue. He could sound less like he’s hitting on Chabby, probably, but it’s so easy to flirt when nothing matters. Possibly the drink that was pushed into his hand was a lot stronger than previously suspected.

Chabby’s eyes crinkle. “Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll believe you.”

What a fucking asshole. Mat sways into his space, leans in, doesn’t care that there’s other people here. “I will buy you Everclear.”

Chabby leans in close, whispers in his ear, breath hot. “We both know that that’s not the way you want to fuck me up.”

Fuck. Mat stumbles back a step because he doesn’t know what else to do, and concentrates on not thinking of the kinds of things that will end up with him hard in public. “What the fuck?” he manages to spit out. His mouth is dry, but he’s worried that if he drinks something he’ll end up choking because of whatever comes out of Chabby’s mouth next.

Chabby is toasting to him, ironically. God, he is such a fucking dick.

“You’re the worst,” Mat says, and wishes he didn’t sound so breathless. 

Chabby laughs. “You look like you could use a drink.” 

He slides out of the seat he’s in, finishes the last bit of whatever he’s drinking, and leaves the glass on the table. 

“I thought I was supposed to be buying you a drink,” Mat says. He sounds stupid as hell, but Chabby has no right to judge him. 

Chabby’s fingers wrap around his wrist. “That was before I decided that you really look like you need a drink.”

“What if I don’t want it?” Mat says, just to be ornery. 

Chabby’s fingers pulse around his wrist in the same way that his heart does, so faint that it almost doesn’t feel real. “Do you want me to buy you something else?”

Mat would like to be able to think without having a heart attack, but he doesn’t think that really counts as a drink type. “We could just leave,” he suggests instead. “And get something on the walk back.”

It’s not that early to be bowing out, and people know that they’re friends. It’s not going to be noticeable. He still has a moment of paranoia, even though it’s his suggestion, but it’s followed by a moment of ‘fuck it.’ Chabby’s one of his best friends, and Mat still has his heart tucked into a pocket. He doesn’t care what anyone will or won’t say, so he doesn’t complain when Chabby goes straight out the door, no goodbyes to anyone else.

They go to Mat’s room this time, which is pretty much the same as Chabby’s, but just, more messy. Chabby is definitely internally snickering, because he knows all about how messy Mat is already. Mat wants to kiss him, and he’s sure he hasn’t been subtle about it, so he sways in to see if he can steal one. 

Thomas stops him with a hand over his mouth. “Not this weekend,” he says. “Mat, please.”

He sounds worn down and upsettingly human. Mat is too used to him being larger than life, and it hurts, that Mat can’t do for him what Thomas does for him. 

“I’m sorry,” Mat says, and he means it. “I won’t try again.”

Chabby’s smile is a little pained, but he throws an arm over Mat’s shoulders, and messes up Mat’s hair with his free hand. Mat can’t even be mad about it; he deserves it a little. “It’s a weird weekend.”

“Do you want your heart back?” Mat blurts out, because he doesn’t—he doesn’t know what Chabby’s thinking. 

Chabby’s immediate surprise makes it apparent that it wasn’t even a consideration for him. “No? Keep it. I know you’re still keeping yours in a jar, or whatever.”

“It’s not in a jar,” Mat says softly.

Chabby gives him another one of his looks. “But it’s not on you, even though it’s happy, and healthy, and good.”

That’s true. It’s not one of those things Mat advertises, because he doesn’t want the judgment, but he doesn’t like being soft. Doesn’t like knowing all these emotions, hates how tangled feelings make him. He keeps his heart away from him, chest empty, head clearer. He told Chabby because he could trust Chabby, and he’s not regretting it. He just wishes Chabby hadn’t mentioned it just now. 

“I don’t like feeling things,” Mat admits, quietly, because he’s soft when he keeps his heart on him, and weak, and he can’t. 

“Yeah. But you do it anyway,” Chabby breathes, pulling Mat just a bit closer, and that’s right. Heartbreak is the look Chabby’s pretending he doesn’t have on. Mat can be stupid insensitive at all the wrong times. 

“Sorry,” Mat says, before he knows he’s going to say it at all, his brain echoing his mouth, but it’s the same thought, so no big deal. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Gonna have to be,” Chabby says, but that’s not a yes. 

“Will you get mad at me if I offer to get a fighting major for you?” Mat asks, and he’s only half-joking. Violence is bad, and all that, and Mat isn’t a brawler, but he’d do it anyway. Bro code, or whatever. _Bros_ before bros.

“Please don’t.”

“Ch—Thomas,” Mat says, because this isn’t a moment for arm’s length. “He has it coming.”

Chabby shrugs. “It won’t do any good.” He’s lying. There’s something Mat’s missing about his story, edges that aren’t fitting together quite right, but he’s flying blind. 

Mat wants to break something. Chabby is—he doesn’t like telling people, but Chabby is one of his favourite people on this fucking planet, and this is literally unbearable. 

“Cuddles,” he decides, emphatically. “And Titanic.”

“Why?” Chabby asks, but he sounds like he’s about to start laughing. 

“Because Celine Dion? I know you like her; don’t lie to me,” Mat says, squinting at Chabby as he jabs him in the chest once. Twice. Whatever. 

Chabby laughs. “Trust me, I’m not as big a fan as you think. How about we just find the worst movie possible?”

“Yes,” Mat decides, because this is really about making Chabby feel better.

Apparently what Chabby needs is a movie so terrible that they’re both not sure what’s happening but still amused, and to be sitting pressed against Mat. 

“Hey, Mat?” Chabby says, from where he’s been slowly sagging against Mat’s shoulder, obviously tired. “Please don’t tell Tito.”

What the actual fuck. 

“What don’t you want me to tell Tito?” Mat asks, voice deliberately level. 

“About any of the important things,” Chabby says. “Mostly the breakup.”

There goes Mat’s plan of asking Tito about any of it, about whatever it is that’s thoroughly fucked Chabby. “I won’t,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” Chabby says, and now they’re holding hands and Chabby’s falling asleep on his shoulder. 

Mat’s been in worse situations for his bros, so it’s whatever. This honestly doesn’t even rank, unless you reverse the whole scale, but he’s not going to mention that to anyone.

* * *

Apparently Mat has one of the later flights out, and he’s panicking, still carrying out a heart that beats steady like a drum. He doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not jogging down the hall, one hand holding the heart in his pocket against himself so it doesn’t get jostled too badly. Do hearts even get motion sickness? He’s not in the mood to be polite, so he hammers at Thomas’s door and hopes that he hasn’t left for the airport yet. 

Thomas takes his own sweet time opening the door, and then blinks at Mat, who takes the heart out of his pocket and holds it out for him.

Thomas looks from his heart to Mat, and rolls his eyes. “Did I ask for it back?”

“Did you need to?” Mat asks, a quick swoop of panic fluttering in his chest. “It’s yours.”

“I told you to hold onto it while you’re busy not talking about it. You’re not going to talk about it with anyone else, so you can keep holding onto it until you either start talking about it or don’t need to.”

Mat swallows. “What if it never stops hurting?” he asks, voice hoarse. Thomas is offering him an open-ended promise; there has to be a catch somewhere.

Thomas cocks his head. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be the case, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. See you in March, yeah?”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Mat says, the air driven out of his lungs. It was one thing to hold onto Thomas’s heart when they were kids, when things didn’t matter, but they’re grown up now. Even Quebec’s laissez-faire attitude has its limits. 

Thomas laughs at him. “Be good, Mat. You can do better.”

He pauses then, and his face is serious, and Mat suddenly knows that the next thing coming out of Chabby's mouth is going to be awful, an almost rueful smile on his face. "I don't think, all things considered, that it should be with me right now. It's better off with you, and you're the one who really needs it."

He'd called it already, but it doesn't make Mat feel any fucking better, holy shit. He punches Chabby in the shoulder for it on principle.

“I’m not taking mine out for you,” Mat says. His heart isn’t even somewhere he can get to it easily, but that’s not the point. He doesn’t take his heart out even for himself; he doesn’t have anything to offer. This is Taylor Hall for Adam Larsson, one for one. 

“I don’t expect you to. We’re _friends_ , asshole,” Thomas grins at Mat, over it quicker than Mat had expected. “I have to get ready to go, but take care, yeah?”

Mat’s pretty sure Thomas means of himself and not of his heart, and there's a part of him that's almost giddy, laughter rising up like champagne bubbles in his throat. “Bring it in, asshole.” 

The hug is very not-bros, but then again, Mat and Thomas have always been _boys._

“What’re you going to do if someone else needs your heart?” Mat asks, into Thomas’s neck. 

He can feel the shrug. “Well, I pick you.”

“This isn’t Pokemon,” Mat grumbles. He doesn’t remember if Thomas was part of the delegation playing Pokemon Go at WJC, but like, there were enough of them. 

“It’s ‘I choose you,’ actually,” Chabby says, and the way he says it, serious and low and private like only Mat is supposed to hear it—

Mat’s stomach twists in on itself. He’s probably bright red. “Shut up.”

“Don’t you want me to choose you?” Chabby teases, because he has no idea what Mat’s insides are doing. 

“You’re such a dick,” Mat says, and considers biting Chabby just to make sure the point sticks. Not like, hard enough for anyone to notice, but his mouth is practically on Chabby’s neck, so, why not?

Chabby doesn’t even react to the fact that Mat just bit him, but that’s about par. “I guess I deserved that,” he says lightly, finally letting go of Mat. The slightest imprint of Mat’s teeth is on his neck, about to disappear.

“You totally did,” Mat says. “Can I hang out here till you have to go?”

Chabby gives him a look. “No. I hate your company. I give you my heart only because I expect you to throw it into a river.” 

Dickhead. “I’m not helping you pack.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Chabby says, evenly.

“I’m just gonna sit here and gossip with your heart about how much you suck,” Mat threatens, but he’s smiling too hard for it to land like it should. 

“I’m a treasure,” Thomas says softly, but there’s a splash of pink across his cheeks.

Mat should chirp him. Mat should absolutely chirp him, getting a dig in at whatever the hell Chabby’s doing with his hair, or something about saving some ego for everyone else. 

“Yeah,” he says, instead. “You really are.” He can’t look at Thomas, looks down at the heart in his hand instead, warm and alive.

He’s filled to the brim with gratitude, fierce and unrelenting. Everything still hurts, if he lets himself think about it. He still wants to be mad, or cry, and he probably will. He still thinks Thomas Chabot deserves a lot more than the world offers him. But he also thinks he’ll let himself try once he excises the hurt. Once he’s lived and learned and scarred and decided that this is still what he wants. It might not be the same as it is now, but the bones never change, and Mat wants more of this weekend, wants to turn this into the kind of thing he’s not supposed to be considering. 

“You’re a good fucking friend,” he says, echoing the beginning of this weekend, the decision to say yes. “You’re just never bad at it.”

Thomas smiles. “Get on my level then.”

Well, if he insists. “Shut the fuck up,” Mat says, out loud. “I’m trying to be nice to you. Take a fucking compliment.”

Thomas rolls his eyes at Mat. “Don’t get so soft on me.”

Might be a little late for that, honestly, but Mat is going to shelve that thought away to think about never.

**Author's Note:**

> -they're so stupid oh my god they're so stupid  
> -the pokemon thing is real there's an article about it


End file.
